


Penance and Symmetry

by FleshDust



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dark, Demon/Female Human, Demon/Male Human, Demons, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Haunting, M/F, Multi, Painful Sex, Rape, Suffering, Torture, Twisted, Vaginal Sex, Violence, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleshDust/pseuds/FleshDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wanders through the dark hallways of the Cortez Hotel, unable to die but able to bleed and suffer every time He punishes her for her sins. She hates it when He comes for her. And she loves it when He comes for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance and Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched the first episode of AHS: Hotel, and being the sick fuck that I am, loved the creature known as the Addiction Demon (from what Google searches tell me). Please note that as of this writing only one episode has aired. This means that I know nothing about the canon of this season. This is just another twisted thing that popped into my head and I decided to write it, canon or not. Enjoy. Or be horrified. I'm good with either.

 

 

Today was a good day. Today, she was not getting defiled by _Him_. She watched Him fuck the latest check-in instead, some man with dark hair, an oxy-and-alcohol addiction and the smell of jilted lover about him.

The man’s screams were hoarse with unfathomable suffering as he uselessly cried out for help. She knew that there was none of that to be had, not here, in the abyss of the Hotel Cortez.

When she watched Him punish them, she felt such intense hatred and such intense pleasure.

His hips were narrow and white and glistened like oiled ivory, their staccato movements fluid and erotic as He debauched his newest victim. It was hypnotic and terrifying and beautiful and so repulsive and ugly that she wanted to weep.

There was blood. The ripping of tissue and muscle and the endless, merciless savagery of His gleaming steel cock, such a terrible tool of brutality and ecstasy and torn flesh and pleasure and sin as black as pitch.

And the fellow writhing in agony under Him was ripe with the latter. She could smell the sin as it seeped out of him in a stream of blood and piss and shit, staining the mattress that had nursed on all of their black suffering over the decades.

The punishment fits the crime. It always did.

But in the end, the fellow getting reamed would most likely be free. She would not. She would be trapped in the art-deco opulence of the Cortez, waiting for the next time any of its denizens felt so inclined to punish her for the deeds that she had committed when she was more… living.

She knew that she wasn’t dead. Had she been, she reasoned, she wouldn’t be able to feel or even know it when He came for her. He would be fucking a lifeless corpse. But He never did, because this body of hers that should have died many times over simply did not.

She was in some place in between, unable to die, but perfectly able to be brutalized and pleasured by Him as He saw fit.

And she could feel all of it. _All_ of it.

When He came for her, He shredded her completely, made her weep and scream and laugh and cry and bleed. And yet she remained in some queer state of living, hobbling through the hallways of the Cortez and dribbling blood into the rich carpet until the bald man-woman screamed at her in a loud, irritated voice. After some time, however, her flesh always knitted back together in a most unnatural manner.

Yes, the fellow who was fast approaching his true death underneath His thrusting body would be free after He had satisfied the urges that drove Him, the urges that made Him what He was.

_Addiction._

_Pain._

_Lust._

_Compulsion._

_Fucking home-wrecking bitch._

Oh wait, that last one was her.

A final gurgling groan sounded in room sixty-four as His victim faded away into some misty place beyond where she was unable to follow.

Sally was suddenly there by her side, surveying the bloody ruin of the dark-haired man’s body with a slight smile tugging on the corners of her cherry-red mouth.

She watched as He withdrew from his victim, dark blood beading on the pristine steel between His legs.

“How darling,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “He found another playmate.”

She didn’t reply to the hooker’s statement, simply nodding instead. Smoothing down the green sundress that she always wore, she prepared to leave.

However, Sally’s slender fingers closed around her upper arm before she could retreat. Her fingers were alternatingly hot and cold, burning and freezing her pale skin.

“This was just a little fuck on the side,” Sally hissed at her. “He'll come for you again, you know.”

“I know,” she bit back at the hooker, wrenching her arm out of her hot-cold grip. “He always does.”

“Oh, baby doll,” she replied to that, “Better you than me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” the blond hooker laughed, “He likes a bit of sass. Save it for Him, yeah?”

She didn’t reply, only turned around and exited the room. Closing the door, she glimpsed Sally lie down on the bed, holding the corpse in a manner that she may hold a loved one. The ember from her cigarette dangled precariously on a shred of tobacco, only to then fall onto the dead man’s neck.

It smoldered a little blackened pit in the lifeless flesh before winking out with a tiny fizzing sound. Sally was heedless of it, only holding her dead lover tighter, sobbing quietly into the unbreathing chest.

* * *

It wasn’t long until He came for her. In truth, it had been some time since He had come for her, something that had both relieved and disappointed her.

But when He materialized from the murky shadows of the Cortez, she could not help but recoil. She ran through the hallways, ran until her not-living lungs heaved and burned and tears of horror and anticipation streaked her cheeks.

And now, as His white hand was clenched around her throat, she could not help but to fight Him. He squeezed harder when she resisted, black razor-sharp claws digging into her skin.

His other hand roamed her body, pinching and squeezing here and there; plucking at her pebbled nipples through the fabric of her dress. She gasped hoarsely at the sensation. Her knees almost buckled when the jagged claws brushed between her legs.

The faceless head tilted as she squirmed and spat out choked epithets at Him. He watched her with eyes that were not there while she struggled in His grasp and she knew, _goddamnit_ , she _knew_ that the more she fought, the more He liked it; the more He fucking _loved_ it.

The more she fought, the more He’d punish her.

And she hated it.

And she loved it.

He slammed her into one of the hotel room doors, and she heard creaking sounds of protest in her bones. Someone from within swore at the noise, but the curses ceased abruptly when they most likely peeked through the peephole and glimpsed the pale not-face through the fisheye lens.

She clawed at Him, punched Him; kicked and slapped. It didn’t help. It never did.

His hand shot out and into her hair, His black talons threading through the strands for a moment before the hand closed into a fist. His other hand clamped down on her hip, flipping her around. She felt His claws pierce the soft, rounded flesh until they drilled into the very bone underneath. Her clammy palms slammed into the door before her; a couple of nails breaking to the quick as her fingers tried to dig into the wood.

He clawed at her dress briefly, bunching the skirts around her waist to expose her. His other hand was still in her hair, pushing her face into the door. When she tried to push away, He smashed her back into it, and she felt the cartilage of her nose shatter. Her mouth filled with the thick coppery taste of blood.

For all of His lankiness, His strength was a fearsome thing.

And then, _oh shit_ , then she felt His outlandish cock through her underwear, prodding and poking. The tip of the deadly steel easily pierced the delicate fabric. He didn’t bother to take them off her, simply tearing a hole through which He could claim what He wanted.

The steel of His member was so hot, nearly scorching. It stabbed up into her with unnatural violence, forcing her flesh open for Him and splitting anything in its path, heedless of her desperate screams of agony.

The hand that was not fisted in her hair slammed into the wall next to her head. His white hips started moving against her then and she could feel, _oh god_ , she could feel how He ruined her.

Blood started to flow from between her legs; slithering little tendrils of red that traversed her pale thighs like oozing embroidery. And still He thrust into her, His terrible cock maiming her, shredding her, piercing things that should not be pierced and she groaned deeply with the pain and such black, deranged pleasure.

She could feel the burning push of His repulsive steel against her cervix for a moment before it pierced that, too, and continued beyond. It grew and lengthened, even the width of it increasing inside of her, the base widening and forcing her resisting flesh to stretch around it.

A deep cry like that of a dying animal escaped her as the painful weapon inside of her tore into her womb and continued further in. She felt the slick slide of His cock against her organs, and the agony was unbearable. And the pleasure was unbearable.

Her body desperately clutched His steel appendage hard as He kept thrusting. His white hips snapped harder and harder into her and the slapping sounds of sticky flesh connecting again and again were beyond obscene. He fucked her until she was raw and split open and until she was fairly sure that her organs were not much more than butcher’s offal. She could taste her own stomach acid in the back of her throat and feel the atrocious thing between His legs cleave its way through liver and spleen and lungs, stabbing ruthlessly.

And then He dislodged, only to shove the thing into her other orifice, heedless of such mundane things as preparation or lubricant. And so He shredded her bowels as well. Fresh blood trickled down her legs, thick and nearly black and she groaned with the tormented voice of a dying thing.

And she loved it. And she hated it.

When she heard the ripping sounds of her own insides and felt the red, grinding agony of her fractured hips, she came; screaming and cursing and sobbing into the art-deco design of the door.

And then He was done, withdrawing from her as silently as ever. She pressed her forehead into the wall, her chest heaving to draw in air that it didn't need and blood from her savaged insides bubbling thickly on her lips. Her loins clenched brokenly in the aftermath of her orgasm.

* * *

When she was able to gather the strength to turn around, He had already melted away into whatever nothingness in which He dwelled. Little puddles of blood were seeping into the carpeting at her feet, and before she could move, the bald man-woman was there.

“You’re ruining the carpets again!” he/she snarled, the painted face contorting with annoyance.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice deadpan, “Haven’t figured out how _not_ to bleed when He fucks me ‘til I break.”

The man-woman’s mien softened at that, and he/she gave her a gentle smile. The jewel tones of his/her turquoise eyeshadow glinted softly in the light.

“I know, sweet pea,” he/she said, reaching for her and patting her cheek with fingers that were soft and supple like old leather. “He takes what He wants, and we’ll bleed and cry when He does. That’s the way it is.”

Taking her by the hand, the man-woman started to walk toward the utility closet, which was located a dozen paces away.

“He’s fond of you, y’know,” he/she said then, his/her painted smile both joyful and sad. “Not much you can do but to take it.”

“I know,” she replied. “I _do_ take it. And I hate it… and I _love_ it. So much.”

The man-woman nodded sagely as he/she opened the utility closet.

“We all do,” he/she said and went inside, grabbing sponges and a box of soap flakes that she knew were the same color as the man-woman’s eyeshadow.

“Here, baby girl,” he/she said, emerging from the closet with an armful of supplies and a small bucket of water. “You’ve stopped bleeding. Let’s get that carpet fixed up again. It’ll be spick and span in no time, you’ll see.”

“Spick and span,” she parroted, grinning tiredly.

They knelt down together and started to scrub the coagulating globs of her blood out of the swanky carpeting. The man/woman hummed softly as they worked. The pains had started to fade now, and she could feel her damaged insides starting to piece themselves back together again like a meaty jigsaw puzzle.

Someone was screaming in one of the rooms. She heard children weep and she heard the bleating of tortured animals. A bone saw whirred to life somewhere. The smell of mossy mildew and decaying bodies and the flayed, festering veins of junkies reached her. She felt the hallway itself breathe deeply, greedily drinking down the rotted misery that permeated the very core of the Hotel Cortez.

The foam around her sponge had turned pink, and she smiled when she saw that the blood left no trace in the gorgeous carpet. The man-woman nodded, pleased.

“See? It’s not so hard. It’ll be as good as new in no time.”

“Yeah,” she replied, her smile warm and genuine. “Good as new.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A reviewer mentioned this, so I want to clarify: The character thinks of Liz as a "man-woman"; this does not reflect my own thinking. The character herself has dwelled in the hotel for decades, so she is from a different era in which people (unfortunately) thought differently. I realize now that I have not reflected this in my writing, so apologies for any confusion.


End file.
